Wednesday night was futbol night once again. After dinner (which was a scrumptious 5 course meal on the terrace with the sunset views again), we relocated to the hall next door where they had set up a bunch of chairs and a big screen to broadcast the Turkey vs. Switzerland game match. This was big for Turkey – after losing the first game to Portugal, they had to beat Switzerland to have any chance at advancing. Plus, given Switzerland’s history of meddling into everyone else’s business it would be good to lay a beatdown on these busybodies. The plan (mine at least) was to rock my Arda jersey and watch the game with all the folks that had gathered in the viewing room. We all sat around and watched the game until sometime midway through the first half when I had to run out and refill my drink. Of course during the 2 minutes I was gone, Switzerland scored a goal, and the mood in the room was deflated. Now Turkey would have to score 2 and keep the Swiss scoreless. A tough task given that the match was being played in Basel, Switzerland and they enjoyed a huge home field advantage. I wanted to watch the entire game, but Quag and the girls the 3 girls, didn’t want to wear their jerseys, and didn’t want to watch the game. So after Eva went to bed, me, Nads and Quag went to the hookah bar during halftime and agreed to come back and watch the end of the second half. The hookah blew (no pun-it intended), and of course – by the time we come back, the Turks have scored to equalize the game. Now the energy is back, and even though I have missed both goals, I am siked to be back in the room. A Raki later, and I am screaming Arda! Arda!
Arda started this game, and he has been looking good. A couple of near misses, but he is clearly the key to Turkish resurgence. The match only lasts 90 minutes long (plus injury time), and we are hitting the 89th minute. The room gets antsy because we need to win to advance.
90th minute. The ball is played to midfield and Turkey intercepts. The ball is passed to Arda who streaks down the left side, crossing into the Swiss striking area. He dances around and through 3 defenders, left/left/right, then eeks out a sliver of space between himself and a 4th defender. It is just he and the goal, with an advancing goalie and the 4 advancing defenders to beat. The room is screaming wildly – Arda is not going to pass. The fate of the nation rests on his leg, because win or lose, he is going to take what will likely be Turkey’s last shot of the game. I have seen this replay 50 times and I still don’t get how he does this (I tried to link to it on youtube, but for some reason the site is banned in Turkey?) – he launches a right-footed shot that shoots over the goalie’s head, dropping like a rock and bending just under the crossbar. GOOOOOOOOOOAAAAALLLLLLLLLL!!!!!
The crowd goes nuts, I am running around the room high-5ing anyone and everyone. We streak into the lobby and the reception folks are cheering. Down to the disco, and party like rockstars! The bartender offers to buy my drinks all night if I will give him my Arda jersey, and I almost do it – but then I remember, my drinks are free anyways!! it’s Good to be the King!
The rest of the night, we rock to the Song of Freedom, Put our hands up for Detroit, Dream a Dream to fly away, and generally just dance like fools. For the most part I am not paying too much attention to the commoners around me (Tonight I am Arda!), but I do see this Eurpoean guy wearing a white linen shirt, white linen pants, and white boat shoes just writhing his way around the dance floor hitting on these 3 blondies who can’t seem to shake him. Just another sad case of white on white crime. But I can’t trouble myself with that, I have more foolishness to create and encourage. At one point, I do this dazzling spin move that finishes with a scissor-kick/leap, landing perfectly on one knee with outstretched arms as if I were posing after scoring the winning goal, just waiting to be swept into the arms of my teammates and carried away to the adorations of all the screaming fans…No outstretched arms came. No adulations – just a jaw-dropping pain to my left knee. I finally got the ligament issues sorted out, now I bust my kneecap. Oh yeah – busted. But like another Hero, I rise up and continue to dance! Luckily the disco closes down at 2, so I am forced to fight my way back to sanity and sleep.
But, if even for only 1 night – it was Good to be the King (or at least be wearing his shirt!)
